


you're not pathetic

by fearless_seas



Series: Thirteen Years. [9]
Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Fist Fights, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Rough Sex, Shameless Smut, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:29:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25878205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fearless_seas/pseuds/fearless_seas
Summary: Nelson’s hand shake under his touch like a child’s and Alain wants to ask him:Are you afraid of me?
Relationships: Alain Prost/Ayrton Senna, Gerhard Berger/Ayrton Senna, Nelson Piquet/Alain Prost
Series: Thirteen Years. [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1051418
Comments: 6
Kudos: 8





	you're not pathetic

**\----- 1990 -----**

**March 8th**

**________________________**

Have you ever stopped for a moment, stared out at the vast valley of your life and wondered: is this really how it is supposed to be, how it is designed to last? Alain can’t help but wonder this himself. Nelson’s grunts are growing louder behind him, picking up speed as his nails bite into the flesh of his back. Alain winces even as a part of him is used to it: the rough, animalistic quality of their interactions. The lights are always off, for him, but his eyes still face the wall. All Alain can do is pretend, pretend as he stares in the opposite direction and his legs are spread. It’s someone else fucking him, but he doesn't make the same mistake twice because the next time that he cums he restrains it to his tongue, chewing it into the muscle. The name strangled, familiar and all too stranger to him:

 _Ayrton_. 

Nelson shudders against him, pressing the pads of his thumbs into his shoulders and rolling away. Alain attempts to catch his breath for a moment, passing his upper arm over his eyes before Nelson kicks him onto the floor. He crouches, clearing his mind and then stands to gather up his clothing. 

“You don’t have to be so rough,” he mutters, glaring at the angry red marks along his skin in the mirror. 

Nelson only scoffs, “Beggars can’t be choosers, you keep coming back instead of fucking your other Brazilian boy toy, _meretriz_.” The last part comes out like a hiss and Alain seethes. “What? Did he decide you weren’t good enough for him? That you have too much of a reputation?”, the sheets rustle as Nelson settles back into his bed. 

Alain is quite known for being able to hold back his temper. He is the type to digs nail marks into the palms of his hands with calm. But this time, he whirls around quickly, “Are your headaches getting better, Nelson?” And the man before him only wears an expression of confusion and quietude. “Thought so,” Alain shrugged, “Age does that to you. I hope you enjoy your three world championship because you’re only getting worse from here, _vieillard_.” His hand meets the handle of the door, he pulls it open and casts one final glance behind him towards the bed. “You’ll forever be left in the dirt by Ayrton Senna.” And he can hear Nelson shouting profuse insults behind him as he slams the door. 

__________________________

**March 23rd**

Alain peers sometimes, across the way towards the McLaren garage. Gerhard always has a stupid grin on his face; lopsided as though he doesn’t even take himself seriously. But it is not this that chills his blood, it is the way that Ayrton’s hangs off of his arm. Comfortably so. For once Ayrton's smile meets his eyes, and Gerhard observes him as though he were the world. It’s then Alain realizes, he remembers: _that is the same way that I used to look at him._

Nelson notices his stare, his forlorn glance over the asphalt and his lips brush over his ear as he leans closer. “There is no use pretending to be something you are never going to be,” he pulls back, “You’ll never be him.” But Alain casts one last glance at Gerhard, feeling his laughter as it echoes towards him in the paddock. He suddenly feels extraordinarily sick. 

__________________________

**May 27th**

In Monaco, Nelson is disqualified. When Alain reaches his door that night, it slams shut behind him and he is smashed with his back to the wall. He hisses, the back of his head beginning to throb and Nelson’s hands are angry. Furious as they rip away layers and tear him naked. Despite this, this interaction that leaves him bruised and aching for more: he senses rough hands but a tender heart. It beats, pulsating through the veins beneath the facade of Nelson's skin. The silence in between their derogatory words is deafening, shouts and screams that water cannot clean the dust of. Alain buries his face into the pillow, silent and allows his knuckles to pierce themselves into his thighs. 

__________________________

**May 31st**

Sacha Prost. But it is too simple of a name, and nobody simple has just two names. Names aren’t very important to him, he could care less--his son is his son. He jots in Olivier, a family member, Anne-Marie’s choice, and then Daniel for his brother who passed. He pauses then, peeking over to the hospital bed where his wife is sleeping. He had gotten his sister-in-law to take Nico home a few hours before because it was late now. The child’s bed is right before him in his chair and he uses his foot to rock it. Sacha Olivier Daniel Prost. Sacha was a wonderful name he supposes but he nibbles on the cap of his pen and shifts frustratedly in his seat. But Uncle Olivier has had four wives and drinks just a little too much and Daniel--he swallows with a hardened sighs--died of cancer four years ago. It is not a pleasant start for his son... is it? That is two names for family and he is tired of this. He rubs his eyes and thinks of any racers he has known over the years. 

Niki; but then he wouldn’t want to curse his son with a sour outlook. He gets nervous thinking of giving him Gilles or Didier, even Elio or Stefan. Again: he rubs his eyes and closes them. Jean, his new teammate, doesn't have the experience to carry in his son's name. Then, Ayrton comes to mind but quick as this thought disturbed him he chews on his inner cheek to distract himself. 

“What do you think?”, he whispers and the child only blinks quietly up at him with a wrinkle in his brow. It emerges from nowhere but he thinks: you know who you look like… “Nelson.” Because he is tired he scribbles it in the center of the name. “Sacha Olivier Nelson Daniel Prost,” he sounds it out and it is mouth full--even the newborn is giving him an ugly face as though he doesn’t understand what he is talking about. 

When he gets back home a day later, he forgets he ever gave his son that middle name until he receives a copy of the birth certificate. He researches it with a grumble in his throat and, perhaps, a hint of regret. His dismay falls away some when he reads the meaning: _Nelson, Irish, son of a champion._

He couldn’t think of anything more fitting for the man. Loyalty is a good thing.

__________________________

**June 10th**

Alain’s wheels push onto the grass at the hairpin in Canada. And as he watches the tail end of the Benetton speed away in front of him and he struggles back onto the track, one thing crossing his mind:

_This man is going to kill me one day isn’t he?_

He hopes it at least occurs in spectacular fashion. 

__________________________

**June 24th**

He realizes one day that it almost feels like a punishment when Nelson screws him. As though he is back in Catholic school and one of the sister nuns is beating the palms of his hands with a yardstick. The only problem is that he doesn’t understand what he did to Nelson. He wonders what makes a man so bitter, so guarded and utterly but so secretly very afraid every moment he is around. Nelson's eyes have this fury in them, clouds out of the darkness and it is occasionally, when he meets his eyes, that he notices this. A overflowing shallow pool, devoid and yet so full of everything. It was as though Nelson believed he were all alone, that he was a trapped in a certain hell with that belief that people are all for themselves.

Alain thinks that is a poor way to live. 

__________________________

**June 24th**

And Alain thinks when he peers towards Nelson:

 _You’ve changed_. 

But he never says this. 

Yet, he wants to ask:

“Are you okay?”

Until one day he does. 

Nelson’s attention snaps towards him and his brows have knit together at the center of his forehead. His body and his tongue are guarded. “Why the fuck are you asking?”, he chorals in response. But it's not with rage as he shakes his head with exhaustion. 

Alain turns his eyes away, “I am only asking,” and he feels a lot quieter now. Another question comes to mind:

_Why have you changed? What did someone do to you?_

Nelson shifts uncomfortably in his seat, “It’s not like you care anyways, so don’t ask again.” 

Alain only sighs and leads him towards the bed. Nelson’s hand shake under his touch like a child’s. _Are you afraid of me? Frightened of what I can do to you? But why exactly is that?_ What crosses his mind then is that night in South Africa, 1982 when everything appeared to be limitless. Perhaps it still is. It seemed limitless when he saw Ayrton for the first time too. He shudders and something cold squeezes the muscles around his heart. 

__________________________

**August 26th**

“Do you suppose Nigel is honestly retiring?”, Alain is trying to make conversation as Nelson sits across from him, staring at his plate and not making a sound. If you know anything about Nelson, he's always got a phrase in his mouth. Maybe the restaurant is too loud for his liking but Nelson has been quite quiet this entire season. When he does speak, it arrives like a snap, or a vulgarity. But he seems soft like this: calm with all of the lights igniting all of his features: the tiny scar on his chin and the gnawed flesh of his lip. 

Nelson shrugs, “I doubt it. I don’t really give a shit either.”

 _Typical_. 

__________________________

**October 21st**

Alain decides, quite fervently, that he hates the Suzuka track now. The dust kicks out around him as he is bucked off of the track. Grass and dirt fly violently into his visor. The car smokes as it burgeons to a pause on the side of the track and he can hear the sound of eighteen other engines speeding away behind him. The heels of his hands dig into the steering wheel as he unbuckles his belt and pulls himself from the car. Ayrton is already out of his own vehicle, and he still have his helmet on as he nears his direction towards the cut off path. Alain tips his head forward, jumping into the grass and snatching his helmet off. Ayrton strides proudly up ahead of him without looking in his direction. Alain is biting so hard on his tongue that he swears he tastes blood and all he wants is to run up and spin them back around, scream in his face:

 _Look at me_.

But he doesn’t and Ayrton’s back is still turned to him when they are back in the pits. It was intentional, wasn’t it? The crash. Payback; _for what exactly?_ He sits in the garage, his chin in his hands and the championship out of his reach. And more than anything he wishes he were angry, he wishes that he should storm over and snatch Ayrton up by the collar of his shirt. He cups his hand out in front of eyes and he can’t even get his knuckles to curl. His hands go up to his hair. _Why can’t I hate you_? He lays his fingers on his chest and coils them up in the stomach of his uniform. All he feels is homesick for somewhere that he hadn’t ever truly known. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?”, Nelson questions him two hours later. How does Alain explain it to him? That Ayrton intentionally crashed into him and took him out of the championship? He only swallows and Nelson sighs audibly with pity, “How about we get a drink?” Alain peers up and Nelson's eyes have lost that welled look to them. Endless and shallow at the same time. 

____________________________

  
  


It’s already dark by the time that they settle at the counter of the bar at the hotel and Nelson orders two drinks. It is quiet, only a few people scattered behind him. Alain leans his cheek on his hand, his elbow propped up on the counter. He is ordering a second drink, his fingers drawing little circles absentmindedly in the wood when Nelson elbows him and gestures towards the door. 

“Look who it is,” he mocks. Alain’s eyes peel up and he straightens his spine. Immediately upon viewing the two men, his hand flies to Nelson’s elbow, digging his nails into the skin below his sweater. Nelson grimaces but allows him to keep his grip there. Gerhard is making his way into the room, he hasn’t quite noticed them yet but Ayrton has. Ayrton keeps the corner of his eye on them as he pushes Gerhard towards a dimly lit corner. 

Nelson steals one last sip of his beer, whirling his chair in their direction and wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his hand. “Hey, Senna!”, he shouts across the distance. 

Alain’s eyes widen and he rips on his clothing. “Stop!”, he hisses, “What do you think you are doing?”

Nelson shoves him away, pushing his grasp off. Ayrton pauses, a hand postulated on his hip. “Having a drink, are you?” Nelson snorts, “How does it feel to be world champion again?”

Ayrton approaches with a hint of disgust dug deeply into the lines of his face. He makes sure that he keeps at least a meter away from them as though they are contaminated with a disease. “Not bad at all. How was your win?”, but he lacks enthusiasm as he waits to grab two drinks and bring them to his table. 

“It felt good,” Nelson's eye twitches, “I won it without have to crash into anyone, right Alain?” His elbow jabs into his side playfully and Alain’s eyes avert in the alternate direction, his cheeks flush with embarrassment. 

“Stop this, Nelson,” he whispers, pleading desperately with him. But nNelson doesn’t so much as gaze at him. 

Ayrton’s brows narrow and he unfolds his arms from his chest, resting them at his sides. “Are you saying I cheated?”, his jaw hardens. Everything seems to fall reticent suddenly on queue because Alain can even hear Nelson’s breath pace quicken beside him. 

“Maybe I am,” he slides off his chair and stands in front of Ayrton. 

“I would watch your tongue if I were you, Piquet,” Ayrton hisses, towering over Nelson and waving his hand in his face as though resisting the temptation to hit him. 

“Come on," from the background, Gerhard emerges with a tight-lipped mutter. He puts a hand on Ayrton's shoulder, “It isn’t worth it, let’s go.” He attempts to steer him away but Ayrton rebuffs him.

“No,” he snaps, “I want to hear what he has to say. Go on, Piquet, continue.”

“We’ve all seen the replays,” Nelson snarls and Alain wants to grab him by the back of his jacket to tear him closer like strain on a dog's collar. “You screwed up and took Alain out of the race, we all saw,” his fists are begin to curl together. 

“And?”, Ayrton blinks, cocking his head, “It was a racing incident. Just like last year.”

“That was no fucking racing incident,” Nelson snaps, throwing his hands above his head. Ayrton tugs his attention away and Gerhard has managed to lead him backwards some. Alain breathes in relief and turns back around towards his glass. Nelson is still standing but he is just about to slip back into his seat when the tension in the air snaps like barbed wire around their throats. 

It was little more than a murmur under his breath. 

Ayrton says, “He deserved it anyways.”

It happens so fast that Alain is still shouting Nelson’s name and reaching for the back of his shirt when he grabs Ayrton by his shoulder and spins him around. Nelson’s fist flies into his face, a deep crunching sound crackling between them. Ayrton stumbles back into the table behind him holding his nose, a glass shatters on the floor. Gerhard catches him by the arms so that he doesn’t fall to the ground. 

“You bastard!”, Ayrton snaps, his voice masked by his hand. But he is so shocked that he was actually hit first that he doesn’t get up to reciprocate it. 

Alain jumps out of his chair, finally getting a tight grip on Nelson to restrain him. “What the hell was that?”, he shouts in his face. But Nelson has a lost expression as his gaze tumbles down to his knuckles and the little red marks rising on the skin there. The skin has broken through. “Nelson?”, he calls, calmer this time. And Nelson only blinks several times, still and motionless. 

Suddenly, Nelson's head abruptly shifts towards his face, meeting his eyes with an intent stare. “You’re pathetic,” he shakes his head and wiggles out of his grip. “You can’t even defend yourself, you coward,” his hands are trembling as he collides with his shoulder on the way out. Alain only watches him leave.

 _I am not a coward_. 

_Would a coward be able to pick his battles like I do?_

____________________________

  
  


Nelson doesn’t say anything at twelve that night when Alain knocks on his door with a brown paper bag in hand. He only looks down at his feet and opens the door wider so that he can slip in. Alain leads him to the bathroom, flicking on the light on the wall and patting the counter of the sink with his hand. 

“Climb up,” he demands and Nelson hesitates a moment before postulating on the edge with his legs together and his shoulders hunched narrow as though to take up the least space as possible. 

“What’s in the bag?”, he inquires leaning over to peek inside. 

Alain slaps him away, “It is my murder equipment. I am going to slice you into little bits and then feed the bits to the next driver who crashes into me.” 

“Look at Alain Prost,” he chuckles, “Making a joke?”

He ignores him and snatches up the bag, setting it on the floor as he sits on the edge of the bathtub. He reaches into it, pulling out a little bottle of alcohol and opening it. “I didn’t want to ask for rubbing alcohol in Japanese so…”, he manages to uncap it. “This is the best that I could do.”

Nelson turns his nose up. “Is that… vodka?”, he chuckles with a smile that disappears in a second. “Wait a second, you aren’t going to--”

“Yes,” Alain interrupts. He reaches for Nelson’s right hand, the one resting in his lap and tugs it towards him. But Nelson stiffens, instinctively pulling his hand back. But Alain clutches tightly to his fingers and rubs the pad of his thumb over the top of his hand. _It’ll be okay_. Nelson swallows and Alain unfolds his fingers. The knuckles are beginning to bruise and Nelson must have gone on another rampage after hitting Ayrton because the skin is shredded. The lines and wrinkles are streaked with blood and Nelson winces as his hand is unfurled. “This is going to hurt,” Alain raises the bottle up to it.

“Not that bad,” Nelson scoffs but his eye is already twitching. 

“Yes, bad.”

“Nope.” Alain shrugs and pours the bottle onto the wound. Immediately, a string of curses leave Nelson’s mouth. He tosses his head back, seething and jittering with his eyes pursed shut. “Fuck you!”, he tries to rip his appendage away but Alain strengthens his grip on his wrist. Nelson consigns himself, tumbling forward and snagging the shoulder of Alain’s shirt in his grasp. 

“I told you,” Nelson loosen's as the pain subsides. Alain reaches back into the bag for a roll of gauze. He wraps the wound up, keeping his head down as Nelson’s eyes wander over his hair, turning his gaze away whenever Alain notices. 

“You’re not pathetic.”

Alain pauses, “What?”

Nelson suddenly looks embarrassed, “Do you not have ears?” He frowns, “I said: you’re not pathetic.”

“Thanks?”, Alain muses.

“You let Senna get away with a lot of things,” he chews on his inner cheek, “Why do you do that?”

The question makes Alain recess, blinking for a moment into space and shift his gaze upwards. “I don’t know,” he returns to his work, standing up when he was finished to peer over the wrapping. “I think you’re okay now,” he stuffs the bag into the trash under the sink and stands up. 

Nelson raises the hand to his face, turning it over and back again several times. “Thank you,” he manages stiffly with a grunt. 

Alain nods. The tension is still as he leaves, and he wonders what made Nelson’s soul change. It’s little memories that make the world complete, he supposes. 

__________________________

**November 4th**

“Do you ever simply grow tired of it?”, Nelson passes him a confused look. “Of racing,” Alain clarifies. Nelson takes his grip off of his chest and moves them into his lap. 

“All the time,” he grunts, reaching back over and burying his head into the side of his neck. “But every racer does from time to time, you’re not special,” his hands begin to fiddle with the front buttons of his shirt. “Why? Are you thinking about retiring?”

“No,” Alain replies thoughtfully, “Not now at least.”

“Well,” Nelson moves to straddle his legs, “If you don’t have any spectacular news, I am going to fuck you now.”

Alain thinks how much time he truly has left. He’d get to spend more time with the kids. Maybe he just doesn’t understand a life outside of racing like Nelson does. 

_But you did at one point_. 

He shuts his eyes and imagines as he always does what it is he really desires. 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! This section is a little bit of a slow one but I am really excited for 1991 because the confrontations between Nelson, Ayrton and Alain grow even more. If you enjoyed, please comment, support your creators! My Tumblr is @pieregasly if you have anything else to say :P See you guys in twenty days.


End file.
